


Alterations in Viric

by deepandlovelydark



Series: Ecstasy in Cosmogone [7]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, MacGyver (TV 1985), Sunless Sea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2018-12-15 02:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11796519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/pseuds/deepandlovelydark
Summary: The Underzee is full of treacheries: clocks, maps, breath. Sometimes time doubles on itself, sometimes it repeats. Sometimes it unravels altogether.(Missing/deleted scenes from my series "Ecstasy in Cosmogone").





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic's to hold random discomboulated scenes from the other stories in my Failbetter/MacGyver series ("Fulgent Engineering" being the first; there'll be at least one more long one after that and probably more). Consquently they won't make much sense unless you've read those stories first. 
> 
> For this one: I wrote a prison break chapter about Wisdom ("Knowledge of Witty Inventions"), and also wrote the scene in which the crew of the Clipper are planning out how they're going to do that. 
> 
> Then I thought better of meticulously explaining every small detail that I was about to show anyway, and cut it out. But I rather liked the dialogue (and it certainly happened to the characters), so here it is.
> 
> Copyright stuff: “Fallen London is © 2015 and ™ Failbetter Games Limited: www.fallenlondon.com. This is an unofficial fan work.” And MacGyver is copyright either Paramount or Lee David Zlotoff, depending. Certainly not mine.

“Now then,” the Captain says cheerfully, once the Herald and Crewmember finally take themselves to the bridge (not a little reluctant). “Now that we’re all here, would anyone have a good idea how to get an enigma out of Wisdom?”

“Wot a cheering start,” the Crewmember says under their breath. “If this is what democracy’s like, long live the Traitor Empress.”

“A prison break,” the Student says. “It’s the classical solution. Send in a prisoner, rescue them afterwards, and we’re plus one enigma.”

“That means someone’s got to be a prisoner in there,” the Crewmember points out with a shudder. “No thanks.”

“Disguises?” the Innocent Spy suggests. “As Khanate agents or something, if that’s who runs the place. I’m pretty good at disguises.”

A distinctly unbelieving silence meets this remark. 

“What?”

“It’s just a little hard to imagine,” the Student says, with a gasp that a sympathetic witness might be able to interpret as a cough rather than strangulated laugher. “You being much good at being anybody other than yourself.”

The Innocent rolls his eyes and adopts a barbarically drawn-out drawl, which sounds nothing like his normal voice and also very, very silly. “You reckon? I figure I could set you straight on that, pardner. Why you ain’t even heard my genuine cowboy accent yet-”

“Please stop now,” the Herald implores. “The point isn’t sounding even more like some wretched Surface heathen, that’d be completely counterproductive. None of us have more than a passing acquaintance with the Khanate, so we could hardly pass ourselves off convincingly. Besides, the _Clipper_ isn’t Khanate manufacture.”

“We could say it was a prize vessel, maybe? Captured in battle?”

“Not happening,” the Crewmember says. “Captains across the Underzee have standing orders not to let their ships be taken whole, you have no idea how absurd it is to try to capture one. People have an easier time fighting lorn-flukes- they have an easier time killing Mount Nomad, all right? We’d attract less attention by going in and surrendering ourselves all at once.”

“Now there’s an idea,” the Captain says conversationally. “Every one of you has committed offenses worth of being put away at some point. I have a good mind to sell the lot of you off as prisoners and finish the rest of this trip by myself. With the Innocent Spy, of course. He hasn’t done anything knowingly. Yet.”

“Now I know what I’ve done,” the Herald says, her manner equally unruffled. “But do enlighten us. Exactly how has everyone else offended your sensibilities?”

“Encouraging Seeking, encouraging desertion, lying about supplies…oh, all three of you have done quite enough against the zee-code to justify my actions.”

“I’d have to go with them, you know,” the Spy protests. “I’m much better at jail-breaking than any of them.”

The Herald studies him. “Exactly how many prisons have you escaped from?”

“I stopped keeping track after the first few years. Must be nearing triple digits.”

“I occasionally forget that you’re only comparatively innocent…nevertheless. Do you know, I’ve heard that Khanate guards like their prisoners to wear nice short haircuts. Though it may only be an evil rumour,” the Herald says casually. 

The Innocent Spy blanches. 

“I’m not insisting on a prison break,” the Student explains, with the air of someone prepared to continue pressing their point for however many iterations it takes to sink in. “But it’s cheaper than the other options. There’s no point in bribing the governor with a searing enigma to get a searing enigma.”

“And during these dashing prison escapes, the crew always get offed. Suppose I don’t fancy being killed today? It does get old after a while, you know.”

“Yeah, that’s not really fair,” the Innocent agrees. “But here’s a question. Is it that they only take prisoners who have searing enigmas, or is it just that easy to collect one once you’re inside?”

“It would have to be the latter,” the Captain says. “I assure you, the last mutineer I sold them had no searing enigma.”

“Wait, you- what- you’re not serious, are you?”

“He’s serious,” the Student says. “Don’t get him started-”

“Back when I was captaining my dreadnaught, and I stood down a hundred zailors in the Gossamer Way with nothing but nerve and a withered mushroom stalk-”

“He’ll be at this for hours now,” the Student says, while the Captain mumbles of lost glories and snuffers. “Any other ideas?”

“As I heard it, the prison has so many enigmas simply because of the abundance of knot-oracles here. Why don’t we cut out the middleman and go find ourselves a giant toad of our own?” the Herald asks. 

“Because they can’t tell you what the enigma is unless they can talk to you, and I believe that requires them to eat someone. Of course we could just feed them the Crewmember-”

“No,” the Crewmember and Spy say simultaneously. The former shudders, theatrically but also convincingly.

The latter continues: “I’m the professional, so if there’s any mission impossible stuntwork to do, I’m the obvious candidate. Anyway it’ll be fun. I haven’t done any real Great Gaming in ages.”

“We’re talking about a prison. The most securely guarded one in the Underzee,” the Herald reminds him. 

“So? Good practice. Wouldn’t want my escapology to go rusty.”

“Are you really any good at disguises?” the Crewmember asks curiously. 

“Well- blending in, at least, that’s basic survival for a spy. You don’t think I bother being this erudite at home, do you? Only everyone’s so wordy down here.”

“I ‘ope you are not accusing me of an excess of education,” the Crewmember enunciates, in a fair imitation of the Student’s deep tones. They earn themselves one glare and chuckles from the others. 

“No, I think the thing to do is cheat a little bit. What are chains made of around here?”

“Iron.”

“And I just happen to have a device that attracts iron. If we got enough chains together, really heavy ones, we might be getting somewhere.”

“What’s it for, extracting blood? And how does that help us?” the Student inquires. 

The Spy winces. “I hadn’t thought of that either.”

“That contraption is more trouble than it’s worth. I say we zail on and find an enigma somewhere more hospitable.”

“And I say we don’t,” the Student protests, with the sort of genuine anger in his voice that doesn’t usually enter into the _Clipper’s_ little domestic quarrels. “We know there’s an enigma here, we’ve been trying to get more of them for months, and now we finally have a practical lead you want to leave?”

“As long as I rig up a timer so nobody’s actually near the thing when I set it off…” the Spy muses. “And maybe put a sign on it telling people not to go too close.”

“That would attract the attention of almost any self-respecting Neath resident,” the Herald points out.

“Well. I can’t be responsible for that, can I? And probably I’d need a cell to myself. How would I get into solitary?”

“Prudence,” the Captain says abruptly, from his attempts to recall the name of that exquisite restaurant in Venderbight (his memories have strayed from the point somewhat). “For the worst criminals only. Red honey smugglers, practitioners of the Red Science...people with long records. The Khanate sends their Seekers there, I believe.” 

“Perfect!”

“You’re going to pretend to be a Seeker.” The Crewmember’s tone is flat with disgust.

“Sure, I can fake my way through that one no problem. Now, we’re gonna need a signal of some kind...”

*********************

The White-and-Gold intelligence officer tasked with reading the Nuppmiddt reports is fully aware that her colleagues regard her job as rather a joke (and this in a sea where monkey bickerings count as “strategic information”). Wisdom has long since broken away from Khanate control; there is very little that anyone from Khan’s Heart can do these days to influence them, or even acquire some of the delicious secrets reputed to infest those waters. 

Still, Wisdom running itself is preferable to having the place under anyone else’s control. That makes it a tolerable situation for now. 

And at least they do keep sending their reports…she opens the sealing wax with a flick of the knife, noting the missive’s singular thickness. The writing doesn’t feature the feathery loops characteristic of the Governor’s hand. Someone has composed it in copperplate, very tight, very grasping. The latest attache, if she isn’t much mistaken - what was his name again? She scans the letter, looking for fruitful phrases amongst the flowery prose.

_…such as this very intelligence being too much neglected. I fear that such shoddy carelessness may extend into other arenas. Naturally, in the event of the Governor becoming too incapacitated for further duties, I would regretfully take the liberty of handling his responsibilities myself…_

In-fighting at Wisdom. An ambitious man, the Affable Fellow.

“Now this,” the officer murmurs, “should be very entertaining indeed.”


	2. A sacrifice to Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the first scene I wrote for “Fulgent Engineering". Which I initially figured was going to be a short backstory of the Tireless Mechanic and the Unsettling Sage crashing across the Underzee, in a fast road-trip rewrite of Exaltation. Then I decided they needed an actual ship instead of a steam launch and came up with the _Clipper_ , and the story really got going...but by then, this scene didn't match anybody's characterisation or situation any more. 
> 
> Still rather liked it, though.

"I thought you said," the Student asks, dubiously, "that you went in for natural philosophy. Not superstition."

(He is still only a Student, not a Sage, although he has the unsettling part down pat already. Still, a surprisingly trustworthy companion during this rather bewildering year.)

"I go for what works," the Tireless Mechanic says. He's already halfway through laying the circle, salt distilled from zee-water and a pinch of scintillack for good measure. "And I listen to other people's experiences. So if this is what passes for scientific around here, well, it's worth a try. How far was it to the next port again?" 

"Two days to the Avid Horizon, if we had any fuel, which we don't, and that's a gateway to nowhere. Or three days to the Chapel of Lights, where we can be marooned with...well. There's some very unsavoury rumours about the priests there, you know."

"And I'm vegetarian anyway." The circle is done now; he pulls a crumpled card from his pocket, his last message from home. It looks supremely out of place here; a steamship's deck, lit only by the faint glow of false-stars, is not the sort of place for a glittery modern birthday card.

_Hey, Mac. Sorry about Kubulstan. You'll forgive me for it, won't you? Jack._

”I wonder...when Salt takes a secret, do you think you forget ever having had it?" That's a disconcerting thought. Has he ever done this before?

"Tell me what it is and we'll find out."

"Then it wouldn't be a secret anymore, would it?" He lights the card, lays it gently on the salt circle, and watches it glow a pale orange. Like the Dawn Machine, like real sunlight, it burns, and as the smoke vanishes a white zee-bat alights on the rail.

And they are abruptly, somewhere else. A great stone castle, with a rounded harbour beckoning them onwards. Their forbidding destination. 


	3. Torus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This bit happens during the events of Sunless Sea; it will, if I ever get round to it, serve as the introduction to a story about the endlessly repeating night during which the Impeller is built. 
> 
> WIPs, sigh.

Her father says that she musn't go to Hell, at least not until she's come of age, so Elizabeth has to catch the train from Moloch Street by herself. Again. On a first class ticket, though. The daughter of one of Universal Exports’ most important officers has the firm’s reputation to uphold.

Her own as well. She chats with sightseeing socialites, smiles at passing devils (on the whole, devils are friendlier; their admiration is unfeigned, if thirsty). The Inimitable Elizabeth has the charge of one of London’s most favoured salons, for which the Royal Family’s example has suited her perfectly. Select, discreet, allowing rumour and imagination to do her work for her. 

Occasionally, just a little hint of steel.

Anyhow, she’s keeping the word of her promise. After descending the carriage’s crooked wrought-iron curlicues, she bypasses the Lancing Gates for the (comparatively gentle) madness of the Iron Republic. An odd place for a rendezvous, but the Unimaginative Assassin requested it. Presumably the man knows what he’s about.

She hopes he’s up to the task. Killers are ten a penny in London, but finding one who can deliver the permanent death is another task. To say nothing of her troubles finding anyone willing to slaughter this damnably winsome mechanic.

Three showers of hot coconut ices, two topographical manoeuvres, and an INCURSION later, she reaches the Rotating Rotunda. Constantly in motion, perpetually shifting its decors (at the moment it is black and white and red all over, and smells strongly of linseed oil), the place has a quality inordinately rare in the Republic: it’s something like a permanent destination. 

The Assassin waves her down with a bloodied shoe-horn. He employs it to beat a cushion into submission and graciously seats her upon it. 

“Arrogant things,” he explains. “They have an uncanny way of devouring socks, when left to their own devices.”

“My…thanks. You received my down payment?”

“Aren’t we to be well rewarded. That much rostygold would have been perfectly adequate from any of my other clients. Myself, I would cheerfully settle any little hampering score of yours for a quarter of it. The love of the profession for its own sake, you understand?” 

He spears a passing pudding on his umbrella. Excellent rectilinear technique. Her spirits rise.

“Half as much again, when you complete the job.” She waves away the attentions of a blood-feathered Oi-Aggeloi, who is trying to lay a dirtied napkin on her lap. The fussy thing leaves, weeping.

“Cantigaster’s drippings? Hung, drawn and quartered? Or would you prefer a more fetching mode of death? I assure you, I’ve had no end of practice killing him. Any way you like,” the Assassin adds brightly. He slices the pudding up with quick, even slashes, pours wine over a few pieces, offers her the rest. 

She shakes her head. ”If that's what it takes. But remember, the engine’s what matters.” 

"Stopping one impeller being built won't save Paris, you know. I believe half the French government is already trying to sell their city, and the other half is merely holding out for better terms."

 _La ville lumière…_ Elizabeth has to remind herself that this man will serve a purpose. Provoking his anger just for sullying the most lovely of all cities with his sardonic intelligence won’t help her cause. And it may sting to admit, but he’s right about the politicians.

“It’s a question of time. If the Fulgent Impeller is built and duplicated, if the Traitor Empress leads an exodus to the High Wilderness, the Bazaar will have to acquire another city immediately. There's only one viable prospect on the horizon right now."

“Oh? Meaning you're working on cultivating the attractions of an alternative?" He turns his attentions back to the abused pudding, poking experimentally with his kifer.

"You've been to Prussia, haven't you? The Empress's Eldest...but this is all by-the-by. Take this," she says, holding out a pocket watch. “The night before it’s due to be built. As many times as you need, until all’s well.”

“Not taking any chances, are you?” He holds the watch up to a wailing candelabra. The make’s too crude for ratwork, and the crystal is plain sapphire, but around the face winds a curiously-twisted torus. Colourless liquid chases itself round the little tube.

“As short a time as he’s been in the Neath, and they’re already singing songs about him at Wolfstack? Clearly you’ll be dealing with a man of infinite resource and sagacity,” Elizabeth says, her voice dry as dust. “Besides, I have a whole city’s welfare riding on your success.”

The Unimaginative Assassin flicks a lighter into action, watches the component pieces of pudding curl up into crisp ashes, then slowly begin to reconstitute themselves. Crumbs crawl helplessly about. 

“So I’m to be on the side of good this time? What a topsy-turvy Neath this is. My dear, you have bought yourself an assassin.”

They just manage to shake hands on the deal before the whole building collapses around them, rebuilds itself as a very ugly opera house, and begins to sing Puccini.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that there's an entire subplot in L. M. Montgomery revolving around a captain's cannibalism?
> 
> Yes, I've nicked Little Elizabeth from "Anne of Windy Willows". She happened to perfectly suit all my plot requirements: right era, has a reason to want to save Paris, lively sense of imagination. 
> 
> I'll admit the James Bond joke might have been going a little far, though.


	4. Vertere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The opening of a story I'm tentatively calling "Vertere": set after the Fulgent Impeller is built and the Tireless Mechanic has finally finished his term working for the player captain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed Infinity Labs from Paul Gadzikowski’s “The Hero of Three Faces” comics (asked permission first, naturally). They’re great fun and involve even more improbable crossovers than mashing up MacGyver with a videogame (an inspiration for this fic cycle, in fact, along with Graham Greene’s “The Quiet American” and Ennio Morricone). I recommend his work whole-heartedly: http://www.arthurkingoftimeandspace.com/3faces/index.html for the most current comics (the comics with Infinity Labs in them are here: http://members.iglou.com/scarfman )

“You know, some people hallucinate mysterious beautiful women when they go mad at zee. Who do I get? Jack Dalton.”

This isn’t really the reaction Jack had been anticipating. Or that he feels he deserves. It’d been quite a slog, wrangling those camels down here for a rescue mission and then working north through that hellaciously weird Elder Continent. (All those crystal spires and sapphire outcroppings! They’d looked great, right up until they started coming to life.)

Although in retrospect, maybe stowing away on his friend’s ship and popping out to shout “Boo!” in the middle of this sunless ocean had been the wrong angle of approach. 

“I mean, to be fair everyone did warn me. ‘Don’t be stupid, you can’t go out to zee alone even if you do take enough Clay Men to run a steam launch. The Underzee’s no place for loners.’ And of course I didn’t listen to them. Probably I’ll end up in Parabola next, and that’s just going to be so much fun.”

“But I am real. Honest. What will it take to convince you?”

His friend snorts, before dumping the remnants of a gutted zee-monster carcass over the rail. Little goblets of phlegm and ooze drip from his hands; he rubs them untidily on an apron. “Let’s see. You can’t tell me anything that I do know, because I already know it. You can’t tell me anything I don’t know, because I’ll assume I’ve made it up out of desperation to carry on a conversation, even if it’s only with myself.” 

“Um.”

“So, I’d say that’s your problem. I’m just the one going mad over here.”

“You’re not supposed to be the crazy one! That’s always been my job.”

“See? Now that is exactly what I would imagine you saying.”

“How about a punch in the nose?”

“If I can’t stop my own subconscious from hitting me in the face, I’ll check myself straight into the Royal Beth the minute I’m back in London,” his friend says, looking extraordinarily wry. “But I can’t say I’m worried.”

Jack tries it anyway, with a noticeable lack of success. Dammit, he never could take Mac on in a fair fight. 

“That was almost realistic,” his friend says, shaking out his hand. “I’ll agree, I definitely connected with something. Probably the rail.”

“That was me, you bastard! And it’s also me dripping all over your deck now. See? Real blood?”

“You’re ruder than I’d expect of myself, but then I am imagining Jack Dalton. Obviously there’d have to be be swearing and comedy fake blood. Unless that's just more Underzee ooze dripping over the deck again...”

Jack bites his tongue and tries something he hasn’t bothered with since he was fifteen, when his well-meaning foster parents had been offering tediously helpful suggestions for learning patience (not one of his more noticeable virtues). He counts to ten very slowly. 

Then: “MacGyver…”

All the flippancy drains out of his friend’s face. Most of the blood, too. 

“Mac? You okay?”

“Shhsh. Give me a minute.” Of repeating the name soundlessly, with a kind of ecstatic calm that worries Jack far more than anything else that’s happened so far.

“That was it. I remember now. Or you’ve remembered for me - oh my god, you are real!”

The ensuring hug is fierce and glad, and also pretty well stops the smaller man breathing, what with ribcage compression and the stink of rancid fish oils. Still. Not the time to complain. 

“Now that’s more like it,” Jack remarks, once Mac finally calms down and he’s able to speak again. “Except for the part where I’m still bleeding over everything.”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry. It’s been…Jack, I’ve been having such a crazy time of it down here. Come lie down and I’ll get you a wet handkerchief. You have no idea how much explaining this place takes.”

“Are you telling me? You should have seen what that continent did to my hat…”

*******************

The _Physius_ is a ridiculously small ship - barely bigger than his old California houseboat - but there’s worse fates than sleeping in the engine room. The Mechanic has, after all, done that before. And keeping the crockery in the same room makes it very easy to cook Pittsburgh rare fillets. 

“You sure it’s supposed to be that shade of blue? No offense, but I seem to recall your telling me once that lizard was a delicacy.”

“Which it is, down here. Just dig in before it gets cold,” MacGyver tells him. 

Jack shrugs and does. Looks like second-rate steak, tastes like second-rate sushi. 

“Okay. First thing to do is, we need to zail straight down to the Elder Continent so you can get home right away, before something happens and you get killed -”

“Whoa, whoa! Who said anything about me getting killed? I thought this place was Immortality Town, right?”

“Not really. A couple of hundred years is how long most people manage, and by then they’re too decrepit to move.”

“Couple hundred years is still a couple hundred years. I’m game.”

“And once you've died once, you can’t go back. Not ever. Sunlight’ll kill you permanently. It’s already happened to me,” MacGyver says, his expression quite unreadable. “And after what I went through realising I couldn’t ever go home, I’m certainly not going to let you make the same mistake.”

“Ooooh. So that’s why you never came back? I thought it’d be something like that.”

“Yeah. It’s not like I didn’t have my share of chances to leave before it was too late, but I just kept telling myself, I’ll stay on a little longer researching this, or getting intelligence about that…delaying tactics. Pete shouldn’t have sent me alone, but how was he to know I’d go native?” MacGyver’s smile is distinctly wan. “You know me, I wasn’t the type. In and out missions, and back to California before my suntan wore off.”

“So what made you do it this time? You can tell your old buddy, I promise won’t go blabbing all your-” Jack cups his hands and hollers out the door at the silent Underzee. “Deep dark secrets! Or anything. Yeah? Yeah?”

He’s provoked a laugh out of his dinner partner, at least. “Uh-huh. Well - I found out about this engine. One that makes everything they’re working on at the Phoenix Foundation or Bell Labs look like kids’ stuff. I mean, cutting NASA’s budget hasn’t done them any favours, but everyone in the field knows that we don’t have anything capable of getting us out of the solar system and we won’t for at least another hundred years, probably more. And the way that last Earth Summit before I left went, well…” MacGyver looks a bit sheepish. “I thought, hey, maybe this’ll be my big chance to save the world. Or what’s left of humanity after we wreck ours. Besides, who doesn’t want to go to space?”

“Huh. Dunno about the saving the world part, but if I’d known you wanted to travel the universe, I’d have hooked you up with the folks in Infinity Labs. Midwestern interdimensional travel since the ‘70s- did I say the wrong thing?”

“You know people who can get off-planet.”

“Yup.”

“And you never thought of telling me.”

“Figured you knew already. I mean, it was a tech thing. You know all the tech things, right?”

The Tireless Mechanic glances over at his hard-won engine. “Sheesh. If only!”

*******************

“…we’ll have to pick a pseudonym for you. I mean, it’s not absolutely necessary, but it’s culturally sensitive. And a lot safer if we run into any irrigo along the way-“

“Irrigo?”

“Memory-draining radiation. That’s why I couldn’t remember who I was. I think it likes to steal names.” 

“Radiation. That likes to steal names.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay then, I’d better come up with a stupid one to give it…Gilligan? Hank? No, I’ve got it! What about Tuco Benedicto Pacífico Juan-”

“Jack, would you at least try to take this seriously?”

*******************

“So I brought you a lot of anachronistic goodies. On the Phoenix Foundation’s dime, so I can promise you everything's first rate.”

Mac tuts at him. “That was dangerous. Suppose someone else got hold of future tech or something? I’ve been very careful not to reveal anything I know, in case…well, I don’t know what could happen. We don’t have the slightest way to even guess what could happen.”

“Hey, I didn’t know I was going to walk into a cave and find myself in the nineteenth century, did I? But if you’re going to be on your high horse about it, I guess you don’t need this,” Jack says, drawing a brand-new, red-handled knife from his pocket and tossing it up in the air. It shines brightly in the candlelight. 

"Sheesh, Mac, you're looking like you wanna eat me or something."

MacGyver splutters. "No! Definitely not! That's - that's not really funny down here, Jack. There's this whole long list of taboos about cannibalism, they take it very seriously.”

“That so? I was dating this anthropologist once. She told me that a culture doesn’t develop taboos for something unless they’re already doin’ it and just don’t want to admit it.”

“In that case, I’d say she was right on the money.”

He's still staring longingly at the SAK. Jack relents and lets him have it.

*******************

Chocolate (“No offense, but corn syrup doesn’t seem like much once you’ve tasted solacefruit.”) Contact lenses (“Great! You have no idea how sick I got of these Victorian frames.”) A cassette player and a handful of tapes. (“All of the world’s music to pick from and you brought Don Henley’s solo album? Not even ‘Desperado’?”)

“Brought that too,” Jack assures him, digging through the crate. “Think I left it next to the film soundtracks…”

“How’d you even fit a whole crate of supplies on a ship this small?”

“I sold off that crate of coffee beans in the last port and smuggled it aboard when you weren’t looking. Don’t worry, I got a good price.”

“Jack, how could you? That was for me!”

“How? Since when have you started drinking coffee?”

“Uh, for a while there I was mainlining the stuff to stop me sleeping. Cause I’d stolen a secret from a bunch of dream snakes and they were gonna kill me on sight, and, um...I guess I kinda got used to the taste after a while?”

Jack straightens up. “Okay. I can handle the idea of a space-crab that steals cities, I can handle the two of us time-travelling and getting magically younger for no good reason. Even you getting chased by dream snakes. But my MacGyver, drinking coffee? That’s gonna be a tough one.”

“I did warn you it was weird down here, didn’t I?”

*******************

Jack is not dignified at the chart line; he splutters and gasps and generally makes a fuss over his seven immersions. More of one than MacGyver, frantically trying to remember the words to a chant he’s only heard twice, finds strictly necessary. 

Still. Everything ends, even rituals with less than helpful participants. 

“Right. So I’m the Tireless Mechanic. And you are?”

The soggy, bedraggled figure in front of him still manages a cheeky smirk. “The Unrepentant Smuggler. You know what, Mac, I could get used to this. Isn’t that a great name for an airline? Even better than ‘Dalton Air’.”

“Well, they don’t have planes down here, so if you ever want to fly again, _be careful._ There’s a lot of water between here and Adam’s Way. And since the names taboo down here is even more complicated than the eating people one- for the last time, stop callin’ me Mac!”

“Sure, sure. Can I still call you MacGyver?”

The Mechanic shrugs in amused chagrin. “Incorrigible, you know that? Oh well, as long as it’s just the two of us…”


	5. Behest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, forgot I wrote this snippet. Comes after Vertere.

Jack Dalton's usually a light sleeper - in his line of business, it's a necessary survival trait - but he counts on being comatose tonight. A real bunk is a lot more comfortable than the nest of spider-silk ropes he's been sleeping on since the Uttershroom. (MacGyver rigs up a hammock for himself on the tiny top deck. Always was too thoughtful for his own good.)

All the same, the second the door creaks open that night, he's immediately awake. 

It's Mac, of course, just visible in the starlight (false-starlight? Whatever they call it down here). Not furtively. Walking towards the bunk with his easy, laidback grace. 

Okay then. Awaiting developments. 

Only he goes right past Jack, to the back of the cabin where the engine lies. Sets to work on its black casing, wrenching out a particular huge ivory slab that slides away as though it's never heard of friction.

The Tireless Mechanic straightens up and studies his work, with a weary satisfaction. The Impeller's hot heart lies neatly open now, redder than blood, red as forbidden and longed-for sunsets. His friend stands there, crisp twilight silhouette against the flames, beckoning in most welcome invitation. 

Calling to him - all in readiness - 

and as he takes the last step, something hits him out of the blue with a flying tackle. 

"Ouch! Jack, what-"

"You gonna tell me that wasn't necessary?" the Smuggler asks, alternatively pushing and dragging his friend as far from the Fulgent Impeller as the cabin's tight confines will allow. "Because if I screwed up your fix-it, sorry, but from where I was sitting, it looked more like you were about to try jumping in a furnace for a little swim."

The Mechanic sighs. The Impeller's singing to him still, but now he's properly awake it's nothing he can't handle. "Yeah. Pretty much."

"So. What's going on with this thing?"

"I told you, I built it. Best engine on the planet, only it has this bad habit of occasionally mesmerising people. Usually I just tie myself to the bunk to make sure I don't go sleepwalking, but I forgot to do that this time-"

"And you've been sleeping with this thing for how long? Can't you get rid of it?"

"How? It's the future time problem all over again. I've got something that could maybe make life better for a whole lotta people, or maybe wreck the lives of a whole lotta people, and I have to decide how I'm going to play it. In the meantime all I can do is sit on it-"

"Until the night you throw yourself into it, apparently-"

"Safe enough if you take precautions."

Jack rolls his eyes. "Wonder why I didn't hear it."

"Uh. Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think you're attuned for its..uh, aesthetic judgement. It has very particular tastes."

"You're saying it's too snooty to find me appealing."

"Yeah."

"Well, that's a relief..."


	6. Heartbreaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small fandoms don't feature much crack. Everyone's too busy writing serious and insightful fic. Which I generally prefer, just...not all the time. Have some Mac n' Jack - ahem, Tireless Mechanic and Unrepentant Smuggler - slash. 
> 
> (This takes place after the events of "dark satanic weather factory". Considerably after, in fact.

The Inexperienced Singer is a Revolutionary of the highest order. More to the point, she's been identified as one of the responsible parties in a very nasty contretemps involving Mr Veils, a stolen balloon and a horde of falling kittens. The Constables stand waiting to arrest her the moment she dares to appear on stage.

"We'll get you out of here," the Tireless Mechanic promises. "Herald, think you can reach the ship without anybody tailing along?"

"Of course, but it's an ugly crowd out there. Somebody knocked out the theatre manager with a slab of nevercold when he said there'd be a delay, and you don't even want to know what they did to the Spangled Unicyclist," the Herald comments. "The minute they realise there's nobody coming on to entertain them, there'll be real trouble."

"Aw, we'll have no problem substituting," the Unrepentant Smuggler says easily. "Mac, remember the Bangkok Special? I think it's time to resurrect that fine piece of action."

"Oh - no, Jack Dalton, that was a quarter of a century ago! And I thought we agreed never to do it again, anyway."

"And I bet you haven't forgotten a single chord. Unless you'd rather show off your juggling? Far be it from me to interfere with a virtuoso juggling display, you know."

The Mechanic's amusement has a distinct air of being despite his better judgement. "Does it have to be an either-or proposition?"

**************************

One staircase, several ladders, a number of hidden passages and an inexplicable boot cupboard later, the escapees reach the skylight. All they have to do is wait until everyone's attention is safely focused on stage and make good their exit.

The Herald rummages for her opera glasses and risks a glance down. The Smuggler's appropriated a set of drums from the orchestra pit, apparently without opposition (the musicians seem to have fled as one). He slams on a glass cymbal - once, twice, thrice -

The Mechanic steps out from the curtains, still frantically adjusting the gadgetry on his guitar. The Herald rather hopes the result will be loud. It'll have to be, to overcome the boos of an audience angered at the lack of their favourite cross-dressing sensation.

A few riffs, a slow build-up on the drums -

and the Mechanic plays a sound that's never been heard in the Consort's Hall before, an electric mind-numbing scream that drags at its audience like a physical pull. Something new, something different to break up the routine niceties of Veilgarden entertainment at last -

though the words aren't really much different than the average Bohemian melody. "Your love is like a tidal wave-"

"Spinnin' over my head-"

"Your love is like an eiderdown-" the Mechanic sings, and the Herald wonders if he's gone red from the heat of the lights, or embarrassment, or the stress of getting the sound equipment to work without exploding, or all three.

"And it leads on to bed," the Smuggler finishes, with a smirk and a wink at the crowd. Who accordingly cheer. Fickle lot - but that's probably just as well.

"You're the right kind of sinner-"

Amazing, really.

"To release my inner fantasies-"

That they can play catch with the lines like this -

"The invincible winner-"

Without missing a breath -

"And you know that you were born to be-"

Of course, their lives probably have depended on this sort of split-second timing before. Makes sense.

"You're a heartbreaker." The Mechanic forces a howl out of his instrument, a sound to match the accusation -

"Dream-maker." Like the call and response in church, almost. Perhaps that's where they got the idea.

"Love-taker." Not a cry, this time, but softness that's an abrupt comedown from the piece's energy -

The Smuggler throws one of his drums at the head of a scandalised Constable who's come up on stage, and successfully connects. "Don't you mess around with me!"

The Inexperienced Singer taps the Herald on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, but weren't we meant to be leaving now? Not getting arrested? Running away from prison and all that?"

"Oh. Right."

Funny how mundane that dramatic escape seems just now...


	7. regarding: shirts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> treat for Dareon Rex, to a prompt regarding the Unrepentant Smuggler 
> 
> (a less rude one than the following would suggest)

"Five minutes, Mechanic," the Captivating Princess says. "If you're as clever as all that, doubtless you can think up something to entertain us- you can, can't you? Or else there's always the honeypots."

"We're doomed," the Mechanic says as soon as the door shuts. Simply and morosely. 

"That's unduly pessimistic of you- aw, c'mon." The Smuggler frowns and sticks out his tongue at the mirrored boudoir wall. "You got me doing this whole sixteen-carat vocabulary now. In a Texan accent, no less."

"It's your natural hustler instinct, tellin' you to fit in- oh, bees in their hells! I don't want to take any honey!"

"She made it sound real yummy."

" _Red_ honey, Jack, that's like eating foie gras, I dunno if being it or eating it's worse. What are you even doing?" he asks, watching in bewilderment as the Smuggler tears off a plushy red velvet smoking jacket.

"Taking my clothes off, what does it look like? I've got a great idea-"

"Oh no."

"If this Captivating Princess is everything you've said she is-"

"Believe me, she's worse!"

"-and sensation seeking and jaded as all that, then what she really wants is something so dumb, so completely pig-headed, that nobody would have ever thought of trying it on her before-"

"And you're gonna try it stark naked?"

"You think that would help?" the Smuggler asks, one hand coquettishly on his breeches pocket. 

" _No!"_

"All right, all right, keep your shirt on-"

The Captivating Princess enters the room at this point, unencumbered by retainers, her smile very wide. "We do hope you've thought up a tolerable new amusement. One does enjoy a little variety, once in a way."

"I haven't," the Mechanic declaims, with the patience of the damned. 

"I did," the Smuggler says, with a most uncanny smirk. "If I may, your highness..."

**********

"I don't really understand what happened," the Herald says. "She must have been propositioned by a wearisomely constant stream of well-wishers. I can't imagine even your Smugger thinking up something exotic enough to get you off the hook."

"Ah, but this was a crime against nature," the Smuggler says happily. "An offense against sanity. A violation of all sorts of norms of fashion."

"You're making it sound like veils-velvet. What he does is," the Mechanic explains. "Whip off the shirt he's wearing, tie a ribbon round it, and present it to the Princess. Still sweaty. Nothing special about it, so I can't think what on earth she found so appealing about it. It was only one of my old Hawaiian shirts! Some fluorescent flamingoes and kiwis on it and stuff."

"Now I'm just wondering why you're not both dead."

"Mac, I love you," the Smuggler says, lips pursued, "but face it. You fancy mullets, you wore that gant leather jacket until it was literally in shreds, you think Neathglass googles are the height of fashion- you have no dress sense whatsoever, simple as that. Sure, it was a gamble thinking that the Princess might be monstrous enough to share your taste in gear- but hey, we got away with it, didn't we? I sure enjoyed being thanked by a royal. Might even take her up on that invite to the palace one of these days."

"Jack, if you even think about trying that, I will go track down your murderous namesake and have him talk some sense into you with the business end of an awfully sharp knife."

"Oh, you're no fun."

"...but if it was his shirt, why were you wearing it?" the Herald presses. 

"First two guesses don't count," the Smuggler says, grinning now. 

The Mechanic sighs, lets his head slide slowly down to the tavern bartop. "And here I was thinking this day couldn't possibly get any worse..."

 


End file.
